


Church Bells

by shieng



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Domestic, Drama, Dubious Consent, Emotional Constipation, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Family Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Romance, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 04:33:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6890323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shieng/pseuds/shieng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finding out his husband was having an affair didn't strike Stiles in the way he'd expected — assumed — it would. He doesn't break down into a fit of tears, demanding to know why because he already knew the answer to that question. He's always known, deep down, that his husband never loved him; not entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first time joining this fandom so wish me luck /o/

_CHAPTER 1_

 

Finding out his husband was having an affair didn't strike Stiles in the way he'd expected — _assumed_ — it would. Oh, there was a good deal of hurt, and even the age old insecurities return for a brief moment as he stares at the photographs capturing the intimate moment between his husband, Jackson, and a woman. But he doesn't rage like he wants to. He doesn't break down into a fit of tears, demanding to know why because he already knew the answer to that question. He's always known, deep down, that his husband never loved him; not entirely. Not enough to consider how he'd feel, anyway. 

Flipping the photos over to spare himself further distress, he covers the trembling of his fingers by gripping one of the ceramic coffee cups Scott had given him when they first moved into their apartment. That was nearly a year ago. 

"You've gotten the proof you wanted. What will you do with it now?" 

Jordan Parrish sits in front of him, hands clasped over the envelope bulging with the rest of _proof_ Stiles had asked for. He blinks at the deputy police officer, a sour curl to his lips that quickly smoothed away once he's had a sip of cups contents. Straight black coffee. His dad would be shocked if he heard that his son was drinking it without a bucket load of creamer and sugar to rot away his teeth. Parrish is a handsome enough fellow - strong jawline, slanted, pale green eyes, and dark blonde hair. And even more, he was a good enough friend to do this one favour for Stiles without letting it slip. In a town as small as Beacon Hills, the news of his husband’s infidelity would only warrant rumours and backlash from the homophobic and entitled. 

Stiles had dealt with it enough to know it wasn't pleasant. He'd be damned if he went through it again. 

"Nothing." Stiles says at last, taking another sip of his coffee and levelling Parrish with flat, honey coloured eyes. "I just wanted to know if he was cheating or not, Jordan. You've given me what I wanted. So, thanks for that." 

"Stiles — " 

"— the money's already been wired to your account." 

"Stiles!"

Parrish smacks his hands onto the polished surface of the dining table, leaves an imprint on the glass. Stiles wants to grab a rag and Windex and scrub away the impression but Parrish is staring at him again. There's pity in his eyes, an expression of anger on Stiles behalf. His lips are thinned out and bloodless, there are bags beneath his eyes that could be mistaken for bruises and Stiles wants to ask if he's slept at all of late. Probably not. He was too busy being a good friend and following Jackson all the way downtown every night to snap photos of him and his lover.

"Stiles. How you're reacting — what you're saying — it isn't healthy. It isn't right. He's been cheating on you, Stiles, for God knows how long. How can you just turn a blind eye to all of that?" 

 _Because I don't have any other option,_ Stiles thinks - wants to say. _Because I don’t want to be alone._

But he can't bring himself to say any of this, not when a thick knot has settled in his esophagus. Not when the telltale sting of coming tears tugs at his deceptively calm composure. He closes his eyes, drains his cup of coffee and stands to his feet. 

The wood is cool, frigid. He should have turned on the heaters when he'd left for work that morning, but between dropping by his dads to make him breakfast and coming back to see Jackson off, it had slipped from his mind. He runs a hand through his tousled hair. It's overgrown and tangled near the end, the colour dulling. He feels old, worn out; used. 

"Jordan, I — I'll deal with it, alright. You've done enough for me and I'm thankful, really, but you should go home now. It's late and you look tired." 

"I can't leave you like this. Your dad — " 

"Doesn't need to know a thing," Stiles interjects placidly, walking around the dining table into the kitchen to deposit the empty cup on the stainless steel countertop. "And won't blame you for not doing anymore. You've done enough for me, Jordan. More than I deserve." 

Parrish tries to say more, but the words die away when the lock on the front door turns. He grabs the pictures from off the table, stuffs them back into the envelope and slips it into his pocket in a knick of time. The door sighs open and Stiles straightens his slouched over posture, using the edge of the counter to stable himself as the hallway light flicked on and his husband appeared at the mouth of it. 

He'd always heard the whispers, seen the look of confusion marring people's faces when they saw him and his husband together. They couldn't understand why someone like Jackson Whittemore, someone who came from a well-to-do family, who was unbearably handsome and charming, could ever marry someone like Stiles. They simply didn't fit. Stiles was too small, too thin and too pale. His body was littered with moles and face marked with beauty marks that did nothing in the enhancement factor. He talked too much or too little, he was clumsy, graceless; he wasn't the ideal type for a man like Jackson but still — still it was Jackson who had asked him out senior year. Jackson who proposed when they'd graduated college. 

"Stiles," Jackson says in way of greeting, emotionless. The fondness that once made Stiles's heart flutter when he'd spoken his name is absent. It's been absent for so long, Stiles doesn't even recall how it'd sounded. Jackson looks over at Parrish, his blue eyes cool, stoic. "Parrish. What are you doing here?" 

"Visiting Stiles, of course," Parrish says as if it was obvious. 

"It's a little too late for a friendly visit, don't you think?" There's a biting edge to Jackson's voice now, a possessiveness that comes not from him, but his wolf —Stiles doesn't find comfort in this knowledge. 

"He was just leaving," he cuts in before Parrish could retort. "I was going to see him out when you came in." 

There was a minuscule furrowing of Jackson’s brows, a passing suspicion that’s wiped clear before Stiles could even determine if he’d really seen it or not. The blonde man walks away from the kitchen, heading down the hall to the bedroom he shared with Stiles, but never slept in anymore. The truth knocks insistently on the walls of Stiles’s mind, saying what he didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to acknowledge — Jackson was going to shower, sit down to eat the dinner Stiles made for him and go out without bothering to give the flimsy excuses he’d used in the past.

He leads Parrish out of his home without another word, unable to meet the deputy’s sympathetic eye. Closing the door behind Parrish was, essentially, locking away the truth. Another skeleton in the closet. By now, he would have started on heating up Jackson’s dinner, attempted to make idle conversation that would go nowhere and washed his dishes all the while knowing he would not be sleeping in their bed tonight; again.

Stiles leans against the archway wall for support, his breathing uneven, shattering. He wants to cry, but he doesn’t want to alert Jackson and face the harshness of his voice and the frigidness in his eyes. So he buries away the pain, crippling as it was. Denial was potent, and Stiles lived on it for so long, he’d become addicted to it.

So he faces his estranged husband when he steps into the kitchen still dripping from his shower and asks if he wants his dinner heated up; he pretends, and _pretends_ to be fine with the oppressive silence and the cold shoulder; he doesn’t allow himself to cry because weakness wasn’t an emotion he could afford to carry around anymore.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_CHAPTER 2_

 

 

_“You’re beautiful.”_

_Stiles balked. A nervous laughter spills forward and he finds himself noticing just how closely they are sitting together on the bleachers. The lacrosse field is empty, everyone else having left the moment practice ended. Stiles had only stayed behind so he could wait for Scott. He didn’t know why Jackson had chosen to sit next to him, why his fingers were o-so close to brushing against his bare calf but he’s painfully aware of the heat radiating from the latter._

_“Wow, I — “he pauses to laugh again, anxiety unfurling in his stomach along with the fluttery motions of butterflies and ever present shock because Stiles had never thought the day would come when Jackson Whittemore would complement him. “— I mean, I already know so you don’t have to tell me that. I mean look at me. I’m freaking handsome and seriously awesome so you finding me beautiful is totally normal like — “_

_“Stiles.”_

_“Ugh, yeah?”_

_“Shut up.”_

_“Right, sure, totally gonna shut up now.”_

 

He wakes up to the left side of the bed cold and untouched. For a moment, Stiles simply stares at the smooth pillow surface, his heart sickeningly tight with _sorrow_ because he had grown unfazed by the sight of it. He taps the snooze button on his phone a second after the alarm sounds, freeing himself from the duvet of the too big bed and making his way into the still damp bathroom. He wipes the mirror free of mist and scrutinized his appearance. He could understand, he supposed, why Jackson was running back to _her_ every night. He hadn’t let himself go in the sense that he’d become unshapely and sickly looking, but the weeks — months — of restless sleep added with work at the hospital had taken its toll. His skin was bleached of pigment from the stress, his dark brown hair unkept, and the bags under his eyes a palette made for bruises.

He was tired. Physically, emotionally, psychologically. And he fears, quietly, that the longer he is forced to wait for the final blow, the more damage it will cause him when it comes. When it came, and it will come, it will destroy him.

The scorch of the hot shower soothes the tension from his muscles, turning them lax; the air is choking with the Jackson’s scent, something rich and fragrant that lingers in the air as he allows the burning heat to rinse away his troubles, if only for a few minutes.

When the water has gone cold and threatened to leech the warm from his body, Stiles leaves the shower. He functions on muscle memory alone as he brushed his teeth and combed the tangles from his hair; he dressed himself in a pair of dark jeans and a loose, long sleeved white shirt. The weather had gone from mild to crisp with the approach of autumn, the trees shaking free their leaves in a way that makes him envious.

He toys with the gold band on his finger, a habit for whenever his thoughts strayed into those dark places where insecurities lie and old demons paced in wait. He wished his dad hadn’t chosen this weekend to go fishing. He wished for a lot of things of late, but none of those wishes had yet to come true.

So keeps himself busying with cleaning a house that doesn’t feel like a home, not anymore. He picks out the clothes from the hamper in the bathroom and those strewn in the bedroom. It felt deliberate, him finding Jackson’s shirt stowed under the bed, as if it had been placed there to mock him; hurt him. The shirt is wrinkled and in need of a wash; there is the faint smell perfume, and Stiles doesn’t need to be a werewolf to know it’s the same perfume he’d often find saturated on Jackson’s skin.

Which leaves him to wonder if others knew. If Scott had known all along and elected to not to say anything. Maybe he wanted to spare Stile’s feeling, or perhaps even it had never crossed his mind because Scott being who he was, was oblivious to everything that wasn’t Allison related. He liked to hope that that was the reason for Scott never telling him that something was amiss.

He throws the shirt in with the rest of the dirty laundry.

 

* * *

 

 

“Why are you calling me?”

The sharp note of irritation gave him a pause, and Stiles is jostled to the side by an impatient mother and her child as they pushed by him to enter the condiments aisle. Stepping aside to allow others to go through and avoid being ran into again, Stiles fiddled with the hem of his shirt as he responds, “What do you want for dinner? I was thinking lasagna but we already had that on Monday and – “

“I’ll be working late tonight,” Jackson interjected and Stiles feels his mouth dry. He’s heard that line too many times for his comfort, to be fooled. “There’s a pack meeting afterwards so eat by yourself and go to bed.”

“Right, okay.” The words are difficult to get out and Stiles has to _breathe_ in sharply before he could speak the next few. “Well, I’ll see you when you get home, then.”

There’s no response on Jackson’s side, not even a goodbye. Stiles stares numbly at the black screen of his phone, wondering how they had come to the point where not even a simple hello and goodbye was exchanged. He looks down at the groceries he had in the blue basket, contemplating putting everything back. His dad wasn’t around to eat it and his appetite had diminished; it would go to waste otherwise.

He returns the item in his basket before depositing it amongst the shopping carts, and in a dream like haze he makes his way back home with the radio turned high on a crooning country singer beseeching to her love to not leave, and Stiles finds himself laughing with each lyric.

 

_What do I have to do to make you see_

_She can't love you like me?_

 


End file.
